I hate you for that, Isabel. For walking away.
I know, I know you saw, Isabel. I was hiding nothing, there at the end.
But it was too late. You’d chosen your path.
And I, because I love you, truly love you, I knew I had to accept your choice.
I had to set you free.
But as long as I lived, you would never be free of me. I saw that too.
I had to set you free.
I died for you, Isabel. I am your Jesus, your Savior. Some would call that blasphemy, but it is true. I died so that you might live. So that you might be cleansed of your sins, absolved of your transgressions, washed clean of your iniquities, whose name is Caleb.
I hate you for walking away.
But I love you still, despite it.
I will always love you. Perhaps one day I will even love you enough to truly walk away, so the shadows trailing you will finally be empty.
I was a drug addict, but I got clean. I quit. I suffered through the withdrawals and I got clean, stayed clean.
But I cannot get clean of you.
I cannot quit you.
I have tried.
I cannot.
* * *
You are resplendent in white.
Draped from head to toe in virgin white, the slippery chiffon clinging to your hips and bust, cut deep to reveal an ache-inducing amount of cleavage, the train extending several feet behind you, the veil sheer enough that I can see the tears in your eyes as you waltz with slow grace down the aisle.
You are resplendent in white. The loveliest bride there will ever be.
But you are not walking down the aisle to me.
I am hidden, as ever, in the shadows. Up in a balcony, swathed in darkness, watching you glide away.
I lied; I cannot see your face. I can imagine, however. I can picture your eyes gleaming wet behind the sheer white lace. Picture your chest heaving as you work to fight down your emotions. You are always so emotional, all of your feelings worn on your sleeve. Oh, the time I had, teaching you to keep a blank face with clients. But even then, watching you through the cameras, I could see your thoughts on your face as clearly as if you’d said them aloud.
I’ve been here on this balcony for hours. I sneaked up here after everything was prepared, after the flowers were arranged by the pulpit, after the roses were tied to each pew endcap, after the red carpet was rolled down the aisle for you. When everyone was gone and there was nothing to do but wait, I sneaked up here. Stared down at the flowers and the pews and the pulpit, at the aisle. Imagining. Fantasizing.
Hating.
Raging.
Burning.
Envying.
They even sent someone up here to check, but the owner of the shoes didn’t look under the pews.
So here I am.
Watching you take those slow, dancing steps, one by one by one, down the petal-strewn aisle. Camila prances before you, scattering white rose petals, taking a moment to throw a few handfuls at the crowd, getting petals in people’s hair. So like you, Camila. You probably don’t see it, but Camila is you, Isabel. Life has taught you to bury your mischief, to contain your wildness. But it is there. You are fearless. You panic and you forget to breathe and you freeze, but then you do what you must do. I tried to keep you contained, but I couldn’t. Your zeal for life won through.
I kept you for myself, kept you locked up in my tower like fucking Rapunzel, a night-haired princess rather than golden. Not to keep you safe. Not to protect you, but because I feared if you tasted life beyond my walls, you’d leave me. You didn’t love me, and didn’t know yourself. But I feared if I let you free out into the world, you’d remember. You’d find life, find love, find your natural exuberance.
And even though I tried to keep you hidden away, a treat saved for myself, you still found a way.
You still found life.
You still found love.
You still left me.
I told so many lies, because I am weak, a pretender to strength. My body is powerful. My mind is sharp. But where you are concerned, I am weak.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to witness the union of Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro to Logan Wesley Ryder . . .” The minister begins his speech, rambles tiresomely.
You stare into Logan’s eyes. I can see you in profile, standing there in the chancel. Your breast rises and falls deeply, and I picture your knuckles white as you clutch Logan’s hands. I picture the bodice of your gown swelling with each breath.
I picture myself gazing into your eyes.
I clench my fists and close my eyes and breathe. Push away those images. I died for you, and I must keep my promise.
My death was a vow, you see:
Touch no more; kiss no more; speak no more.
I may watch only.
And if I picture myself there, with you, I will break my vow.
If I love you, I must let you love him.
If I love you, I must let you wed him.
I shouldn’t be here, watching this. Torturing myself thus.
I’d very nearly rather enter that room with Caleb once more, endure his brutality once more, than endure this.
Watching you take his hand, his name, his ring.
Watching you weep for joy.
“Do you, Isabel, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, for as long as you both shall live, so help you God?”
“I do.” Your voice is clear and strong, steady.
“And do you, Logan, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, for as long as you both shall live, so help you God?”
“I do.” His voice as well is strong, proud.
“Then by the power vested in me by the State of New York and by Our Lord Jesus Christ, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
I watch him lift your veil. Your cheeks are wet, despite your clear voice. I watch his hands cup your face, watch his thumbs brush away your tears. I watch you bury your fingers in his long blond hair, watch you lift up on your toes.
You kiss, you and Logan.
Deeply.
Fiercely.
So passionately it becomes nearly unbearable, not for me but for the audience, composed of friends, donors to The Indigo Foundation, the many, many people you have touched and helped and moved and inspired. You have no family; neither does Logan. Except each other, and your children, of course.
As they do so frequently, my eyes go to Jakob. My doppelgänger, writ miniature. He is solemn and serious, holding the now-empty ring bearer’s pillow. Watching you and Logan kiss. Unsure of what it all means, but knowing it is a serious occasion. Camila wriggles out of the grip of her minder, an assistant who has become like family. And once Camila is free, there is no catching her. She’s like the wind, a zephyr run wild through the cathedral. Laughing, sprinting pell-mell up the aisle, throwing flower petals at everyone.
And Jakob, he watches her disapprovingly, brows lowered. “Mama, why is Camila so bad?” he asks you.
You only laugh, and watch Camila sprint through the narthex, stopping to splash in the holy water. “She isn’t bad, my love. She’s just . . . a little wild.”
“I’m not wild, am I, Mama?”
I can hear all this, clear as day. His voice is small and soft and sweet, his eyes on you my eyes, deep brown, but so much more expressive, like yours in that way.
“No, Jakob. You are much more serious.”
“Does that mean I’m gooder than her?”
“Does that mean you are better than she?” you correct him. “No, Jakob. It just means you are different from each other, that’s all. No better, no worse. Only different.”
“But sometimes she’s bad.”
&
nbsp; Another laugh. “Yes, sometimes she is bad.” A glance at the raven-headed boy. “And so are you, sometimes. You colored on the walls yesterday and then tried to let her take the blame, didn’t you?”
“You knew?” He sounds amazed.
“Of course I knew, silly. Why do you think she didn’t get in trouble?”
“Cuz you let her do whatever she wants?”
“No, because I knew it was you, not her.”
“So why didn’t I get in trouble?” Why indeed, I wonder.
You pick him up, rest him on your hip, brush his hair out of his eyes. Kiss his cheek, ever so sweetly. “Because it was a better punishment for you to see your plan go awry. You got very mad when I didn’t punish her, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And now you know you can’t get away with things like that, and I didn’t have to punish anyone.”
“How did you know it was me, Mama?” Oh, that face, so confused.
“You had crayon under your fingernails. And the crayons used to color on the walls still had the papers on them.”
“So?”
“So you’re the only one who leaves the papers on. What does Camila do to all of her crayons?”
“Rips the papers off.”
“The crayons were also intact, rather than broken. And what does Camila do to her crayons?”
“Breaks ’em.”
“Correct. You failed to think of all the details, I’m afraid, my little mastermind.”
“You’re smarter than me, Mama.”
“I’m not so sure about that, little one. You’re awfully smart. I’m just older and wiser.”
“Will I be old and wise too someday?”
“If you were to try to frame Camila again, and actually get away with it, she might try to kill you. She’s got quite a temper, you know. If you can avoid that, you might just live to become wise, yes.”
Jakob’s silence is telling. He’s thinking, hard. It’s like you almost want him to be devious. “Coloring on the walls is babyish anyways.”
You just laugh, and set him down. Logan has watched all this with a smile on his face, and now he leans down to ruffle Jakob’s hair. Camila has realized everyone is watching her cause a ruckus, so she has quieted. She flips her curly blond princess locks out of her face dramatically, blinks her vivid blue eyes, and strides with demure elegance back to you, Jakob, and Logan. And together, you walk toward me, toward the narthex, the exit.
If you were to glance up, right now, you might see me.
But you don’t.
You have a hold on Camila, and Logan has Jakob’s hand, and you are all together, saying hello to friends in the pews.
Not looking up.
Not looking to the shadows.
It’s better this way.
When everyone has left, I wait a while longer. Finally, I descend.
Fill my palm with white rose petals from the aisle. Stare at them, sniff them, but the scent on them has faded.
The reception is next. And I have a plan.
* * *
I am unrecognizable. Not even you would know me, should you look directly at me. I have grown a beard since you last saw me, for one, and I have smeared food in it, back-brushed it to make it snarled and wild. I have temporary green tinted contact lenses in. An old beanie covering my head. I’m wearing clothes I bought new and aged by throwing them in the mud and having Thomas drive over them a few times, and then covered them in rotten garbage and actual shit.
Over that is an old, tattered, stained, foul-smelling blanket I bought from a real homeless man.
I walk hunched over, blanket up around my ears, hobbling as if my left knee is bad.
Instead of having a normal reception in a fancy hall or restaurant, you throw open the doors to A Temporary Home and invite everyone. There are no less than ten cakes in a variety of flavors, a buffet of free food ranging from standard fare such as chicken wings and tenders, mac and cheese, salad, and homemade soups, to real wedding reception dishes like chicken cordon bleu, a prime rib carving station, salmon. And when I say you invited everyone, I don’t mean just your friends, but everyone. The mayor of New York has an apron on and is dishing out coleslaw to the homeless. There are celebrities, professional athletes, other politicians, even the vice president. It is one of the biggest nights of the year, and all the fancy, famous guests are behind the tables, dishing out food to the real guests, the homeless and hungry, who have shown up in droves.
I make my way in, and blend with the crowd perfectly.
There are party favors, voluminous waterproof backpacks for every guest filled with coats, wool socks, gloves, hats, scarves, blankets, and boxes of hand warmers, because you’ve opted for a winter wedding.
It is freezing outside, the mercury at –6 and still falling, less with the windchill.
I am legitimately stiff and numb with cold by the time I make it inside, and so my hunched posture isn’t quite faked, and the way I smack my fingerless gloved hands together to beat some warmth back into them definitely isn’t faked. The snow in my beard is real. The pink on my cheeks and ears is real. The growl in my stomach is real, too, because I’ve gone without eating for over forty-eight hours in preparation for this, so I would be genuinely ravenous when I receive my food.
You are at a cake station, cutting fat wedges of double fudge cake with vanilla cream frosting and serving them. I wait. I go through the line, let the mayor dish me coleslaw, let a famous New York Knicks player plop a pile of mac and cheese onto my plate next. A gorgeous A-list actress is at the salmon station, and a celebrity chef is at the prime rib station. It’s genuinely staggering, the people you’ve brought in for this, the amount of money you’ve spent on food.
I am in awe of you.
The Indigo Foundation is incredible; the things you’ve accomplished through it in the last two and a half years are simply unbelievable. MiN is nationwide already; within two months of the first one opening, other cities were scrambling to get them built, so you did fund-raiser after fund-raiser, donated millions of my money, and built dozens of Minnie centers all over the nation. The first international one goes live next week, in South Africa, with more to follow in India, Indonesia, Thailand, and the U.K. A Temporary Home is also catching on, with locations popping up in L.A., Atlanta, Detroit, Dallas, and Chicago, and more to come as well, of course. You’ve not stopped there, my lovely, hardworking Isabel. You’ve donated money to dozens of existing charities. You’ve started a nationwide campaign to overhaul the foster care system, spurring sweeping investigations into current and prospective foster homes, establishing a more stringent psychological profile of each foster home in hopes of making sure the homes are safe and loving. You accomplish this by dangling the carrot of a five-million-dollar donation to any county that overhauls their foster care system, the think tank–designed profiling system being the key rider; thus far, you’ve donated over a hundred million dollars. That’s not all. You’ve started a charity that raises money for adoptions, so that couples hoping to adopt have only to meet the home study requirements rather than raising the tens of thousands of dollars normally necessary. The charity also provides volunteer manpower to assist in sorting through the overflow of waiting cases, so that the children and parents don’t have to wait as long.
I don’t know where you find the time for it all, and this is coming from someone who routinely slept barely six hours a day in three-hour chunks.
I move through the buffet line, putting off dessert, putting off being face to face with you.
I eat with gusto, because the food is, indeed, spectacular. I even go up for seconds.
And then, finally, I can put it off no longer.
I wait my turn in the dessert line. Take a little plate and a scuffed, tarnished metal fork—yes, you are serving on real plates with real silverware, and I believe that is the lead
guitarist to a rather well-known rock band collecting the dishes and carrying them to the kitchen. There are four people between you and me.
Three.
Two.
One.
And now, God—now I’m here. Inches from you. Breathing your scent, your perfume. I do not break character, dare not. Hunched, hobbling. I hold out my plate, the fork clutched underneath. My heart is hammering, galloping a million miles a second. I accept the slice of cake onto my plate, lift it and grunt in thanks. A wordless grunt, all I dare risk. You’d know my voice, were I to speak.
And, just like fifteen years ago, if I spoke, I would lose myself to you all over again.
But I do raise my eyes to yours. A moment, only, but in that moment . . . the earth ceases to spin. Hearts cease to beat. Time freezes. I see the joy in your eyes. The peace. Madame X is long gone; no trace of her remains. You smile at me, and the smile is bright and genuine and kind.
“Are you having a good time?” you ask.
I nod, grunt. Shovel a forkful of cake into my mouth, to gag myself.
“Is there anything you would like?”
You, alone.
For five seconds, your eyes on mine, your hands in mine, your lips on mine.
Your heart beating for me, as mine does for you.
Five seconds to know love returned.
Five seconds.
But I will never get those seconds, not with you.
All I get is half that time, perhaps, of your eyes on mine, not knowing me, seeing only a homeless man, as intended.
I shake my head to answer your question, and walk away. Sit at a table, shovel the cake into my mouth. Accept another foam cup of scalding, black coffee. Take it with me, leaving the backpack full of supplies for those who actually need it.
I did not give you all of my money, of course.
Most of it, but not all.
I kept something in the neighborhood of a hundred and twenty million, all carefully and thoroughly laundered, scattered in banks all over the world, untraceable. I need something to live on, of course.
And, while it’s far less than I’ve been used to, a hundred and twenty million dollars is still a fucking lot of money. Enough to give me my freedom. It’s more than most people can ever dream of, yet in comparison to what I left behind, what I gave to you, what you refused to accept for yourself, a hundred and twenty million is chump change. Pennies. In comparison, at least.
Exiled (A Madame X Novel) Page 26
